


Everything is Different, Nothing Has Changed

by miashay



Category: Oz (TV)
Genre: Explicit Language, Gen, Non-Graphic Violence, POV First Person, POV Multiple, Rape/Non-con References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-19
Updated: 2012-08-19
Packaged: 2017-11-12 10:55:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/490111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miashay/pseuds/miashay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Time behind bars is boring as hell.  </p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ryan O'Reily

**Author's Note:**

> Set after the end of the series. It's finished for now, but I may write additional chapters later.

Cyril wasn’t even cold in the ground, fuck; Schillinger wasn’t even in the ground, when Keller went over the rail. The hacks called lockdown the minute his body hit the floor, Murphy and Mineo together, fighting to drown out Beecher’s screaming from the second floor. Looking back, I’m thinking that should have been my first hint Keller’s little swan dive was less of a push, and more of a jump. Well, that, and the damned look of shock on Beecher’s face. Maybe I was still too deep, swimming around in death to put two and two together. Yeah, maybe.

-

After that, it was all dead Nazis and getting the fuck outta Dodge, the hacks rounding us up like cattle for transport, Seamus in his flimsy hospital gown and blanket beside me, grumbling under his breath. The talk was the same as always; Querns was clueless, McManus was busy yelling platitudes and chasing his own fucking tail, and the old whispers of don’t fuck with Beecher, you fuck with Beecher, Keller will fuck you up were strong as ever. Maybe stronger since, far as we knew, Keller was still following up on that threat from beyond the grave. Goddamn Keller.

-

They loaded us up and shipped us out, before Hazmat or whoever the fuck even showed up. Damn shame too, I’d always wanted to see them scrambling around in their rubber suits.

On the bus, Beecher had this fucked up little smile on his face, like the kind he used to wear back when he was bug-nuts crazy, sporting creepy, cracked out facial hair and bad hygiene. I wondered just who he was thinking about, Keller or Schillinger. Maybe his dead wife, or his dead dad, or his dead, one-handed son.

Maybe he was just preparing himself for wherever we were headed next, cause God knows batshit Beecher’s, by far, his most effective mask. Better than slutty Beecher, or reformed Beecher, or, my personal favorite, drugged to the gills Beecher. Course, that Beecher’s just one tube of lipstick and a Confederate t-shirt short of crazy, blind-a-Nazi-and-shit-in-his-face Beecher, but he’s also the only one that ever gave me the time of day so, yeah, drugged out Beecher’s my favorite.

I kept a side-eye on him for most of the ride, though there wasn’t much to see. Rebadow tried to strike up a conversation once or twice, but Beecher wasn’t having it. Meanwhile, I had my pop muttering shit in my ear all the way to Bare Hill.

“Some fucking prison they were running, we’d’ve been safer in goddamn Attica. Hell, bus us off to fucking Sing Sing, never heard of any fucking chemical weapons getting mailed to them.”

The ride was long, Cyril was dead, Gloria was God knew where, I was two beats from shanking my old man, just to get him to shut his trap and, even after six years, Beecher was still the nut I couldn’t crack.

-

Time behind bars is boring as hell. With the tits trade at Bare Hill sealed up tighter than a virgin’s cunt, and my taste for the game all but dried up, there was nothing much to do but lay low, and keep an eye on pop. Times I’d run across someone from the old block, we’d share a nod, or a bump to the fist, like Em City was fucking ‘Nam, like we’d survived something together, something hard and ugly. Course, any politician’ll tell ya, that’s what prison’s meant to be.

-

A couple months in, I ran into a couple Aryans, talking about making Beecher their bitch.

“He’s already marked, motherfucker’s ours,” one of them said. By the look of it, he was the one in charge.

The other two nodded their heads, like the good little Nazi fucks they were, and I couldn’t resist butting in on their pathetic little planning session.

“You don’t wanna fuck with Beecher.”

The head Aryan practically jumped out of his pants, stupid prick hadn’t even notice me till then, before shoving a finger in my face.

“What’s it to you, you dumb mick? You wanna prag, maybe one to share with daddy? How about you get your own?”

I kept a straight face, ignored the insult, and waited for their laughter to die out.

“You don’t wanna fuck with Beecher,” I said again.

“That a threat, O’Reily?” The head Aryan said, drawing my name out long and hard, like knowing it gave him some kind of power over me, like the guards didn’t yell it out every night at count for everyone to hear. Dumb fuck. I laughed in his face.

“I don’t have to threaten you, Müller. You fuck with Beecher, and you’ll get what’s coming to you. I won’t have to lift a finger.”

“And how’s that? Way I hear it, the last punk dumb enough to watch Bitcher’s back ended up in traction.”

I bit back my confusion-Traction? Last I checked, Keller was dead-and stared the ugly fuck down, long enough that he and his ugly fuck buddies started to shift around on their feet, like Cyril used to do when he had to piss.

“You fuck with Beecher, you stupid Nazi cocksucker, and you’ll end up paying for it in blood. You even breathe on that man funny, you might as well hand over your cock and first born.”

“Is that so?”

I laughed again, the noise cold and empty, and shrugged.

“Fuck, what do I know? It’s your dick, Müller.”

I turned around, leaving the three Aryans gawking behind me, and went on the hunt for one of the Oz refugees to fill me in on Keller’s supposed resurrection.

-

Turns out, Keller survived the fall.

Of course he did, the crazy prick’s neck and neck with Alvarez for how many lives he’s got; like a damn cat, or some shit. The word according to Poet, was that his back was fucked up, his head scrambled a bit, but he was no worse off than Beecher after getting all his limbs snapped in half, and his deranged, psycho killer brain would be running like clockwork in no time, nothing like…fuck, the lucky bastard would be fine.

“Men like that live forever,” Seamus told me that night, after lights out, “No place for him in Heaven, and Hell don’t want him. Best leave him here with us sorry fuckers, and suck up all the tax payer’s money.”

I wondered if Beecher knew. I wondered where Gloria was working now. I wondered how long it would take for McManus and Querns to get their shit together. I didn’t have to wonder long. Six months into our stay at Bare Hill, Oz and Emerald City were reopened. We were going home.


	2. Bob Rebadow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time behind bars is boring as hell.

The return trip to Oz was not nearly as quiet as the one to Bare Hill had been. This mostly due to the fact that I shared a seat alongside Agamemnon, a man who’d never met a moment of silence he couldn’t fill. He was nothing like Tobias had been, still and quiet as the grave. I admit, I’d found his behavior slightly unnerving at the time, especially in the wake of such an unusual and dangerous an attack, as the one on Oz.  
  
There was talk that he was responsible, then Keller, then, more specifically (and, more accurately), Keller, in the name of Beecher’s safety. Of course, everyone knew the safest place for Beecher was outside of prison walls, but Keller had already obliterated that option, at least for Tobias’ foreseeable future. Better to violently destroy all his lover’s enemies, than to allow him his freedom.  
  
I’d wondered if that same reasoning is what drove Keller over the second story railing of Emerald City, if he was self aware enough to realize just how dangerous he had become to Beecher. But love is rarely self aware or selfless, no matter how well meaning our intentions, or how much we want to believe otherwise.

  
-  
  
Emerald City was just as we left it. A little cleaner, perhaps, scrubbed down and disinfected before our arrival. Otherwise, it was exactly the same as it had been at the time of the evacuation. Busmalis was certain other changes had occurred: a coat of fresh paint, new cots, or new chairs at the guard’s station. He spent our first evening back in our pod trying to convince me that something was different, that something had changed.  
  
The next morning at breakfast, he rattled on about the chairs and tables of the dining hall, the exact shade of the walls, and the concrete floor beneath our feet. He questioned the inmate who served us our food about the condition of the kitchen equipment, and lifted his tray after he’d finished eating, to check for signs of wear and tear.  
  
“I can’t believe it,” he finally declared, “all that time away and everything’s the same. Unless, I suppose we haven’t seen the infirmary, or the library, maybe? What do you think, Bob? Has Stella mentioned anything? New shelves or books, a new book cart, even?”  
  
I shook my head no, but he plowed on, determined, seeking out change.  
  
-  
  
Our second day back in Emerald City, Ryan O’Reily joined me for cards in the courtyard. He was quiet for most of the first game, uncharacteristically so, and looking far thinner than I remembered. When he finally spoke, his voice was hollow, perfunctory.  
  
“So, you still banging that librarian, Rebadow?”  
  
I watched him over the table, twitching restlessly in his seat. He seemed more anxious than bored. I set down my hand, and looked him square in the eye.  
  
“You don’t want to hear about Stella. There’s something else you want to ask me.”  
  
“Yeah? And what’s that, old man?” He asked, sounding just as flat and unconcerned as before. His face, however, told another story; lips thin, yet quirked up at the corners, eyes darting side to side. It was the most animated I’d seen him since his brother’s execution.  
  
“You want to know if I’ve heard anything about Doctor Nathan.” I replied.  
  
“No! I mean, yeah, but, only if you have. Have you? Heard anything?” He asked.  
  
“I have.”  
  
O’Reily was blushing now, like a nervous schoolboy with a crush. I paused to enjoy the moment, ignored his growing, and rather obvious, frustration.  
  
“I’ve been told she’ll be returning sometime early next week.”  
  
He exhaled in relief, and then covered quickly with an uneasy laugh.  
  
“God tell you that?”  
  
I narrowed my eyes at him in mock confusion, just long enough to get him fidgeting again, before admitting I had spoken to Stella. He gave another uneasy laugh, and let the conversation rest.  
  
-  
  
We played two more hands before O’Reily spoke again. This time, he asked about Keller.  
  
“Word is, he’s all healed up and headed back to Em City. You know anything about that?”  
  
I glanced over his shoulder, towards Tobias’ pod. O’Reily turned in his chair to track my line of sight. When he faced me again, his lips were pursed thoughtfully.  
  
“He talking yet?”  
  
I shrugged- Beecher rarely took the time to speak to anyone, anymore- and backtracked to address his previous question.  
  
“Keller is being transferred from Benchley Memorial this week. After that, I imagine McManus will be requesting his transfer back to Emerald City.”  
  
O’Reily threw another quick look behind him, then stood, and threw his cards on the tabletop.  
  
“Well fuck, it’ll be just like old times, then.”  
  
He stormed off, looking moody and confused. I gathered all the cards together, stacked them neatly and shuffled, before dealing out a game of solitaire.


End file.
